


Forbidden Fruit Tastes the Sweetest

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Authority, Duty, Family, Father & Son - Freeform, Fighting, Fishing, Friendship, Gen, Promises, Rivalry, Warnings For Language, Warnings for Canon-Typical Sexism, camping trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 01:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14297694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Roald's first camping trip as a page brings freedom and conflict.





	Forbidden Fruit Tastes the Sweetest

Forbidden Fruit Tastes the Sweetest

It was Roald’s first camping trip as a page. Except for a brief lunch of dried meat and cheese eaten on a cluster of stones, they had spent much of the day in their saddles, traveling through a green forest blooming with the first fruits and flowers of spring. Even through the veil of leaves, the sun shone warm as a heartbeat upon them, and Roald enjoyed the expedition since Shadow was a placid horse who obeyed his every command, but, as he discovered, not all his year-mates could make the same claim. 

As they dismounted and tethered their horses, Joren of Stone Mountain massaged his thighs and grumbled for the benefit of anyone who happened to be in earshot (an imprudent decision given Lord Wyldon’s penchant for arriving unannounced where he was least welcome and hearing any complaint uttered by a page within a league but characteristic of Joren’s arrogant conviction that his comfort and opinions mattered to everybody), “My legs are aching so much that cutting them off would be an improvement. I don’t see why we had to ride so far today.” 

“If you pass your Ordeal, are you planning to avoid riding by being carried everywhere in a litter?” Cleon of Kennan, who was standing beside Roald as he had traveled alongside most of the day, taunted, prodding at Joren’s weakness as a warrior: his dubious riding skills. 

“Don’t be thick,” spat Vinson of Genlith, and Roald thought it was rather ridiculous of Vinson, who typically ranked in the bottom of their class in any academic endeavor, to accuse anybody else of lacking intelligence. “It’s a training exercise. Why should we strain ourselves?” 

“We aren’t knights yet,” Garvey of Runnerspring added between swigs from his canteen of water.

“Even if we were, we wouldn’t need to ride like this. That’s what the Queen’s Riders with their pathetic little ponies are for, to travel through brush like this so proper knights don’t have to waste time in muck.” Scorn twisted Joren’s face. “Let the whores in the Queen’s Riders get bogged down in the forest while knights serve the realm and go on true adventures.” 

“You’re just jealous that the ladies in the Queen’s Riders can sit a mount better than you, but then most girls can.” Cleon’s features were stormy, and Roald recalled that Cleon had mentioned that his sister nursed an ambition to join the Riders that was currently kept in check only by his mother’s strident threats to disown her if she disgraced their family and destroyed her marriage prospects. 

“We could arrange for the ladies in the Riders to give you special lessons.” Roald’s tone was pleasant and level as he offered this suggestion. A prince was expected to be polite and poised when engaging in a war of wits and words, the only fighting a prince was permitted to indulge in beyond the practice courts. Displays of temper were unbefitting of royalty, who were required to be in control of themselves every moment regardless of provocation. “I’m certain they’d be happy to help you improve as a horseman, Joren.” 

“I don’t need riding lessons from sluts too stupid to know their place isn’t in a man’s world.” Joren’s eyes were ice as they glared at Roald. “The country has gone to the dogs since we let those bitches bear arms but that’s to be expected with a half-breed queen on the throne.” 

Joren pronounced half-breed as if it were a curse, a blight upon the realm. Roald’s blood boiled at the insult to his mother, the not even hidden under a mask of feigned civility statement that she and by implication he were savages. 

Roald longed to punch Joren in his smug mouth. He doubted that the Stone Mountain boy would be so haughty about royal lineages with his front teeth smashed out, but, of course, the mere fantasy of such vengeance wasn’t charitable, and princes were supposed to be nothing if not charitable. Besides Papa had instructed him in no unclear terms that he wasn’t to test Lord Wyldon’s patience by entangling himself in the fistfights that could flare like summer lightning without warning in the pages’ wing…

(It had been Roald’s last night for months in the royal quarters. The next evening he would slip into a bed in the pages’ wing, but, for now, he was reclined against his pillows, staring at the Raven Armoy blade Godsfather Gary had given him that morning as a celebration of the milestone of entering page training. 

It was a generous gift, a reminder that he had the best godsfather in the kingdom, one who told funny jokes, entertained him with amusing stories, gave him reliable advice without posing prying questions, and allowed him to confide things he could never have shared with his own father. The smooth metal soothed him with its coolness and strength. Gazing into its undisturbed surface, Roald tried to mirror its implacability and found himself wondering if the dagger could be used for scrying if no looking-glass was at hand. Perhaps that was another question for Godsfather Gary, who never made a mockery of Roald’s curiosity…

The door swung open, interrupting his contemplation of the dagger’s scrying potential and revealing Papa. Settling himself beside Roald with a rustle of robes, Papa nodded at the blade Roald was studying and asked, “Admiring your gift, son?” 

“Yes, Papa.” When he was younger, Roald might have asked his father about using the dagger for scrying but now that he was ten, he didn’t want to risk being chuckled at for a question that might be regarded as foolish. He was young enough to ask a silly question without realizing it but old enough to be sensitive about being a cause of mirth. It was an awkward age he couldn’t wait to outgrow. 

“It’s a very nice present.” Papa was smiling but Roald understood it was a prompt. “I know you’re grateful for it.” 

“I thanked Godsfather Gary for the gift, and I’ll send him a proper thank you note tomorrow.” Roald couldn’t prevent a trace of irritation from seeping into his dutiful reply. He wasn’t a five-year-old who needed to be reminded to say thank you and eat with his utensils. He wished Papa wouldn’t persist in treating him as if he were, but it would be a breach of etiquette to establish as much aloud. As ever, it would have to remain a silent complaint. 

“That’s good. A prince should always be courteous.” Papa’s arched eyebrow warned that Roald should be more courteous in the present situation. Apparently his irritation had been noticed with disapproval. 

“Yes, Papa.” Roald ducked his head, hoping to conceal a second surge of frustration under the guise of a humble acceptance of a mild reprimand. 

“When you’re a page, you’ll need to be courteous all the time, Roald.” Papa lifted his chin and cupped it in a palm. “That means obeying orders without argument, being punctual and completing all assignments given to you, not using coarse language even if your classmates do, and, for the love of Mithros, not angering Lord Wyldon with fistfights.” 

“I wouldn’t want to anger Lord Wyldon in any way.” Roald had never seen Lord Wyldon without a stern scowl on his face, and he knew instinctively that Lord Wyldon was not one to be crossed without consequences especially if you were a boy under his authority. Eyes wide and serious, he promised, “I’ll be as obedient and respectful as a page can be.” 

As if he could read Roald’s thoughts about being under Lord Wyldon’s authority, Papa said softly, “I’ll be entrusting you to Lord Wyldon’s authority. I believe you understand what that means, Roald.” 

“Yes, Papa.” Roald swallowed as his chest tightened as though a fist were squeezing it at the idea of being entrusted to Lord Wyldon. Being under the authority of the austere Lord Wyldon would have been intimidating enough without the added knowledge that his parents and Lord Wyldon were often at odds politically. Lord Wyldon would be predisposed to see his faults and regard him with suspicion, but, of course, Papa had to hand him over to Lord Wyldon’s harsh training. Otherwise the nobles would whisper about how Papa was willing to entrust their heirs to Lord Wyldon but was hesitant to give Lord Wyldon his own heir. In a royal family, no choice was private, and every decision was subject to public scrutiny, implication, speculation, and judgment. It would have been a wearying way to live if Roald hadn’t been born into it, his first memories lessons in manners. Only when he was confident his voice wouldn’t waver, he went on, steady as duty, “It means he is responsible for my training and education, and I’m responsible for obeying and honoring him as I would you.” 

“Exactly.” Papa patted his cheek. “You must behave for Lord Wyldon because your behavior isn’t only a reflection on you. It’s also a reflection on Mama and me as well as the country as a whole.” 

“I won’t give Lord Wyldon or anyone else cause to believe that I was raised in a barn by pigs.” Roald fixed his gaze on his father’s so that Papa could see how earnest he was in his intent to keep his word. “I won’t embarrass the country, Mama, you, or myself, I swear.” 

“Good boy.” Papa kissed his forehead. “You’ll make Mama, me, and the entire realm proud. I don’t doubt that, son.” 

The kiss on the forehead was a traditional benediction from father to son yet Roald felt it as more a burden than a blessing. In his bones he believed that his father loved him—Papa was sometimes strict but mostly he was affectionate, and he never beat Roald and rarely raised his voice—but in the shadows of his heart, he feared that his father’s love was contingent on how well he fulfilled his constant efforts to be the perfect prince, efforts that, no matter how hard he tried, were ultimately doomed to failure.) 

“If you have concerns about who my father married, I can mention them to my father on your behalf.” Roald was coldly courteous as he extended an offer he knew Joren would refuse if he had an ant’s sense. He hoped that his father would be proud of him for obeying orders and acting very differently than Papa would have in the same circumstances. “He would be interested to hear your thoughts.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” Joren’s forced smile looked more like a glower. “I wouldn’t want to trouble His Majesty with my thoughts.” 

“What is going on here?” Lord Wyldon’s sharp as a spear demand pierced into their conversation before Roald could answer Joren. 

“Nothing, my lord.” Roald shot Joren, Garvey, and Vison a quelling glance that advised them against contradicting his account because it was easier than looking at Lord Wyldon, whose hands were ominously folded across his chest. “We were just having pleasant conversation between friends.” 

“We’re all friends here.” Joren’s smile, bright enough to rival the midday sun, never warmed his eyes. 

“If you’re doing nothing, that is a problem, Your Highness.” Lord Wyldon was clipped and forbidding, leaving no question in Roald’s mind that they would be disciplined for their disagreement. “Idle lads make mischief. You and Cleon will grab buckets, go to the stream, and not return until they are filled with fish for our supper, while Joren, Garvey, and Vinson start digging latrines.” 

Fishing was preferable to digging latrines any day of the week as far as Roald was concerned, but he still felt partially to blame for his and Cleon’s punishment since he had failed to devise a credible excuse for their argument with Joren, so he muttered to Cleon as soon as they were out of Lord Wyldon’s earshot, “I apologize for us being assigned fishing duty.” 

“Don’t apologize.” Cleon leapt onto a log and ran along it. “Tormenting Joren is one of life’s greatest pleasures, and fishing duty can be fun as long as Lord Wyldon isn’t hovering over our shoulders.” 

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call fishing duty fun,” countered Roald, but he was grinning, because Cleon’s upbeat nature was infectious. 

Once they came to the stream, kicked off their shoes and tucked their removed stockings inside them, and waded into the water that rippled around their ankles and tickled their toes, Roald’s grin swelled into laughter that mingled with Cleon’s. When Cleon spotted a blackberry bush along the bank and they began munching on handfuls of fruit, Roald was persuaded to Cleon’s perspective on fishing duty. Eating berries while on fishing duty, strictly speaking, was as prohibited as fighting, but as the blackberries stained his lips with the evidence of his crime and the setting sun turned the sky peach, Roald decided that forbidden fruit always tasted the sweetest.


End file.
